


It's The Full Moon, Martin Priest

by murdochinthetardis



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Body Horror, Martin Priest - Freeform, Werewolves, nothing too graphic, werewolf!martin, werewolf!rowdies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdochinthetardis/pseuds/murdochinthetardis
Summary: After a run-in with a rude customer with an affinity for magic, Martin's life takes a turn when his body starts to change. Lucky for him, he's found by a group of rowdy strangers who bring him into their pack





	It's The Full Moon, Martin Priest

**Author's Note:**

> (OOC) Martin-centric

Martin’s whole body was in pain. Sweat poured down skin that felt too tight, skin then felt like it was being stretched beyond what should have been possible. His bones cracked, elongating, rearranging themselves.

He pushed himself.  _ Run a little further, just a little bit further _ , he told himself. Still his lungs were screaming for air and his feet were on fire, trapped in shoes that were feeling too small. Martin collapsed in a clearing in the woods and began to tear off his clothes. 

He kicked off his shoes, the left one’s sole had already torn off. His fingers, with nails that were getting longer and sharper by the second, fumbled to take the tie off from around his neck. His shirt tore and he ripped it off his body, a sense of momentary relief washing over him as he was free from the confines of the long sleeved, collared shirt.

Martin looked down at his pants then hesitated. He couldn’t take his pants off and be found naked in the woods! He could be arrested! A second, louder thought shouted over the first one; dear  _ God _ take these pants off! Martin clawed at the belt around his waist, undoing it and tossing it into the growing pile of discarded clothes. He wrestled with his pants, gasping when his legs were finally free. He then looked down at his underwear, paused, then took those off too.

In the desperate race to get undressed, Martin’s black rimmed glasses had slipped off his face. He didn’t notice until he saw them on the ground. He  _ saw _ them. For a good few decades of Martin’s life, he had been as blind as a bat — no, even more blind than a bat — without glasses. Yet the world was slowly coming into focus around him, even without them on, even as the fading light of day was replaced with black night.

He could hear his own heart racing, pounding in his chest. He heard his rapid breathing, heard the wind rustle the leaves around him, and worst of all, he could hear his body creak and tear at the seams.

A pained groan escaped his mouth, low and guttural, changing into something more of a growl. It hurt so badly. Never before had Martin felt this amount of pain. Not when his brother broke his nose, not when he had been hit in the ribs with a bat during baseball practice, hell not even in that crash that had taken his mother away from him.

Martin watched his body change. Thick, black hair grew  _ everywhere _ , his skin becoming completely covered by it. No, it wasn’t hair. That was  _ fur _ . His body stretched, rearranged itself into a shape that was barely recognizable as human. He spat out blood that had started to fill his mouth when sharp fangs protruded from his gums.

Martin watched as the fur enveloped the mark on his wrist. A tattoo, if you could call it that, of a moon. A full moon.

Martin was terrified. He was in pain.

He was  _ hungry. _

 

* * *

 

If you went back by just a day, you would have never guessed that Martin would be in this situation now. 

Martin Priest, the quiet and proper desk clerk at the Perriman Grand Hotel, naked and rolling around in the forest in the middle of the night? Don’t be absurd.

Martin drummed his fingers on the desk and pushed his glasses further up his nose. He stared at his reflection in the polished countertop. He could use a shave. His boss didn’t think it was a good impression to have “a scruffy hooligan greet the guests.”

Work trudged on. The clock ticked. Elevators dinged. _ It could be worse _ , Martin thought.  _ I could still be a bellhop _ . Martin definitely didn’t miss that dumb red hat. He had worked hard for this promotion.

Still this mundane work at the hotel was so incredibly boring, Martin wondered if it were really worth it. He hated wearing a tie, that thin and incredibly difficult to tie strip of fabric always felt too tight around his neck. The only jewelry that was permitted for men was wedding rings. Martin wasn’t married, hell he hadn’t dated in over a year. 

His ex had told him he didn’t “live enough”. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Martin was alive, wasn’t that good enough? So the idea of a painful tattoo freaked him out, or the idea of dyeing his hair felt like too much of a commitment (“That shit is permanent!”). Martin just couldn’t handle that big of a leap into something crazy and long-lasting. 

Part of him wanted to. Part of Martin yearned to do something fun with his dark, drab, hair. Maybe he could get a tattoo, a small and hidden one that his boss wouldn’t notice. Maybe he could go to more parties, try to get out of his shell. Maybe he could finally come out as bi. But still… he was afraid to.

Lost in his own head, Martin didn’t notice the woman until she had stormed right up to his desk. Slamming a manicured hand down onto the bell repeatedly, this blonde, soccer-mom looking woman had a look on her face somewhere between “unstoppable rage” and “I just ate a lemon”.

“Hello?! Hellooooo!!” the woman yelled. 

Martin blinked, straightened his tie, and got ready to diffuse this ticking time bomb. “Pardon me ma’am,” he spoke, his southern accent a little out of place, his quiet voice only just audible. “How can I help you?”

“I want a refund,” she huffed.

“I’ll see what I can do, ma’am. Can I get your room number?” Martin asked.

The woman huffed as if Martin should know her room number just by looking at her. “201.”

Martin looked through the computer system before delivering a response. “I- I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t refund your room. You’ve been kicked out.”

“Well I want my money back!” yelled the woman, who the computer told Martin was Suzanne Boreton. “I paid to stay here and I’m being forced out before I should be, so I want my money back!”

“Ma’am, it doesn’t-”

“It was just a little weed!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Scottie had the window open the whole time!”

“Smoking of any kind is prohib-”

“It’s  _ barely _ smoking. I want my money back,  _ and _ an apology to my son!” Mrs. Boreton yelled. She was attracting the attention of other guests in the lobby now. Martin wished he could just hide behind his desk and the woman would disappear.

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Boreton. I’m sor-” Martin began.

“Oh you’re going to be sorry!” Suzanne cackled. Oh god, was she going to ask for his manager?

Instead, Suzanne drew a long, thin stick from her purse. It looked like a twig she had picked off the ground, or maybe even some kind of junk she had bought from a hipster-y, holistic-y, fake magic mumbo jumbo shop. She pointed it at Martin, who stood there not knowing what to do, and mumbled a few nonsense words. Nothing happened.

Then Martin’s arm began to burn. It was like a hot brand was being pressed on his skin on the inside of his wrist. He rolled up his shirt sleeve to look at it. His skin was bright red, but a black mark was beginning to form. A circle, slowly becoming more detailed. A full moon. Martin clutched his wrist with his other hand, gritting his teeth in pain. What the hell was going on? This was impossible!

“Martin? What’s going on here?”

Oh, crap. Martin pulled down his sleeve as his boss approached. “Sir, I-”

“Is everything okay here, ma’am?” Martin’s boss asked Mrs. Boreton.

“I was just leaving,” Suzanne huffed, sticking her nose up in the air. “You really should hire better employees.” And with that, she walked off.

“Martin, what was that?” Mr. Palacios asked.

“I- I-” Martin stammered, rubbing his aching wrist. “She got kicked out of her room but wanted a refund.”

“Well you didn’t have to make a scene!”

“ _ I _ made a scene?” Martin asked. “She was-”

“Enough,” his boss cut him off. “What’s going on with your arm?”

“I don’t kn-”

“Is that a tattoo?”

Sure enough, part of the mark poked out from under Martin’s sleeve. “No, it-”

“Don’t lie to me, Priest, you know that tattoos aren’t allowed for employees. We’re running a respectable business, not a circus.”

“But-!”

“Pack up your things.”

“I’m fired?!” Martin exclaimed.

“You’ve caused enough trouble,” his boss said, nodding. “Pack up your things and leave. If you’re still here in an hour, I’ll have to get security to escort you out.”

Martin? Causing trouble? Martin, the quiet, sheepish, scared-of-his-own-shadow man, causing trouble? 

Before he could argue, his boss walked off, leaving Martin with an hour to leave, no job, and an unnatural mark on his wrist.   
  


* * *

 

 

When Martin woke up, he couldn’t remember the events of the night. He remembered changing, but nothing after that. His body was human again, but not the same as before. A little taller, a little hairier too. His senses felt amplified, hell he could  _ see _ without his glasses!

Still his head throbbed and his mouth tasted funny, like the world’s weirdest hangover. Martin licked his lips, trying to determine the strange taste. Metallic… blood. What had happened? Whose blood was that? Martin had a sinking feeling it wasn’t his own. 

“HI, THERE!”

Martin jumped at the voice then scrambled to cover his naked body. 

“Here,” said another voice. A bearded man stood before Martin, a small group behind him. He held out a neatly folded pile of slightly torn clothes, a pair of black rimmed glasses sitting on top. “These are yours, right?”

Martin nodded, then took them. “Thank you… can you uh...” The group turned around as Martin put on what remained of his clothes. “Thanks,” he muttered, letting them know it was safe to look back again.

“I’m Vogel!” the energetic first voice said. A younger man with wild, partially shaved hair stood next to the first man. He gestured to the one who handed Martin his clothes. “That’s Gripps, that’s Cross, and that’s Drummer!”

Vogel gestured to two others. Another man, presumably Cross, who had shaggy hair and a circle tattoo around his eye. Drummer was a woman with sunglasses, holding a black parasol.

They all wore clothes of a similar style. Mostly black, probably second hand, and unmistakably… punk.

“I- I um…” Martin stammered. “I can explain?”

“First shift?” Cross asked.

“Recently bitten?” Gripps added.

“Yes, and um… no?” Martin answered. “I wasn’t bitten but-”

“Born?” Vogel asked.

“What?”

“Cursed!” Cross exclaimed. “You got the tattoo! Man, yours is so much cooler than mine!” He gestured to the circle around his eye.

“Are… are you all like me too?” Martin asked, bewildered by these strangers.

“Werewolves? Duh!” Gripps laughed. “Oh, apart from Drummer.”

Drummer flashed a smile, revealing long and sharp canines. “I’m usually asleep right now, but I wanted to stay up to say hi.”

“V-v-vampire?”

“No, I’m just really goth,” Drummer replied. “Yeah, vampire.”

“Vampires and werewolves are real?” Martin asked, already knowing the answer. Of course they were real.

“Yup! Welcome to the club!” Cross greeted. “I was cursed, like you, but Gripps was bitten. Vogel was born a werewolf, third generation. He’s the most experienced outta all of us.”

“Cursed… of course,” Martin mumbled. “That b… woman with the stick.”

Drummer laughed. “You can swear, dude.”

“That…. That damn bitch!” Martin exclaimed. God, that felt good. “That fuckin’ witch! She cursed me then got me fired! Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” The others laughed and cheered him on.

“What’s your name?” Drummer asked.

“Martin.”

“Well, Martin,” Gripps began. “We found you wandering around last night, howling your head off. You ate a rabbit then passed out.”

“First nights are rough,” Cross nodded. “But you get the hang of it and eventually start having fun!”

“I didn’t eat a person,” Martin sighed.

“Ewwww!” Vogel grimaced.

“We don’t eat people,” Gripps explained. “It’s a myth. Mostly just eat animals, or raw meat from the butcher’s. Or like… normal food. And beer.”

“Drummer gets blood bags from a friend, we don’t harm nobody,” Cross agreed. “Sometimes we get a bag for the full moon, like a treat.”

“TREAT?” Vogel asked, looking up. Drummer patted his head, promising a treat later.

“You wanna join?” Drummer asked. Martin nodded and she smiled. “Welcome to The Rowdy 3.”

“But there’s-”

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” Cross tutted. “Lotsa things won’t matter anymore.”

“Like math!” Vogel chimed in.

Gripps nodded. “Or jobs.”

“Or driving with your head  _ inside _ the car,” Cross added.

“Rules,” said Gripps.

“Glasses,” Vogel said, nodding at the pair in Martin’s hand.

“But I liked my glasses…”

Drummer patted Martin’s shoulder. “We can get you a fake pair. Don’t worry. There’s a whole other world out there,” she told Martin. “It’s a lot of fun, trust us.”


End file.
